


canticle's (bi)centennial celebration

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (several of them), Alternate Universe, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Fic Collection, Gen, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, Sickfic, Touch-Starved, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:39:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: Since tumblr is threatening to shoot itself off the rails at any given moment, I've decided to archive a series of fills I did to celebrate 200 followers earlier this year! Each chapter will have it's own title and description, as well as a short content warning, if necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you aren't already too swamped with prompts, could you please write some whump about Akira bringing home a nasty injury, either from the Metaverse or not, and trying to deal with it himself but overestimating his medical skill and winding up sick as hell from the resulting infection, resulting in Sojiro/Morgana/Takemi looking after him? Thank you for your time and also all those wonderful fics you've shared with us! (It's probably obvious but Aftermath is my favorite)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: explicit description of accidental injury, explicit description of improper wound care and the consequences

_lmao_

He’s rocking back and forth in a chair up on the roof, waiting for everyone else to show, when he slips. **  
**

It’s a good thing Morgana isn’t there to scold him, because he tumbles all the way down to the ground, the chair clattering down onto its back behind him.

If only it hadn’t been such a nice day for April, he wouldn’t have folded his jacket up and rolled his sleeves to the elbow to bask in the sun. If only he hadn’t rolled his sleeve up, he wouldn’t have sliced his left arm all along the side on the sharp metal corner sticking out of the air conditioning duct.

The pain doesn’t hit for a long, hazy moment. Akira just stares at the ragged edges of his parted skin, the pink meat exposed underneath, the bright red beads welling up in the bottom like—

Shit, there’s the pain, and now that he’s noticed the pain, he’s noticing just how fucked he is.

His first reaction is panic, but right on the heels of that comes a cold, icy clarity that can only be from his new counterpart, the one his awakening in the Metaverse revealed to him. It’s that little bit that corrals the parts of him that want to scream, that want to hunch down on the roof and watch the blood drip through his fingers. It’s that bit that wraps his school jacket around his arm—black won’t show the blood— and gets him downstairs to the nearest bathroom.

Shit. It’s worse than he thinks; he sticks his arm under the faucet in the bathroom and the corners of his vision go blank and hazy. He sways on his feet, but he keeps his arm under the cold water until it feels numb.

The water never runs clear.

This is a problem that he can’t solve in the school bathroom where anyone can see him and start spreading more rumors. Thank every god that Morgana’s off with Ann right now; if he wasn’t, if he had to watch this…Akira doesn’t know what he’d do.

He knows a very little bit of first aid, and he knows the first thing he needs to do is stop the bleeding. So he pulls wads and wads of paper towels from the dispenser and meters of toilet paper from the nearest stall, wrapping himself clumsily. He’s so very lucky that this isn’t on his dominant side.

Even as he wraps, the paper towels tinge pink, then red. He’s bought himself some time, but not a lot.

The black blazer hides the blood admirably, but he can’t hide how bulge-y his arm looks or how stiffly he carries himself. His arm is radiating agony now, enough to make him lose his focus, enough to make every step fee jarring and painful. The cold icy part of him lays out a set of steps that he needs to follow before he gets home.

Step one: subway. Wounded arm held as tight to the body as possible, head ducked, draw as little attention to himself as possible because if someone sees the wet patches, or smells the blood…

Step two: convenience store in Shibuya. Buy paper towels, rubbing alcohol, taffy candy, and a stretchy wrap. Smile and demur at the cashier when she makes conversation, mention something about stocking up your first aid kit. Pick up antibiotic ointment in the underground mall in Shibuya to draw less suspicion.

Step three: answer texts. Difficult one-handed, but bullshit some excuse as to why he’s left the rooftop. Something something needed at home. Sure. That works. Keep balance when he staggers. Try and ignore the pain spreading.

Step four: realize he forgot painkillers. Too late now.

Step five: slip past Sakura-san and all his customers. Laughably easy; he looks up when the door opens, makes some comment about not getting into trouble. Nod tightly and speed up the stairs.

Home safe, somewhat. Sakura-san could walk up the stairs any moment, but he feels secure enough to wrestle off his jacket (and even that sends pain shooting up his arm and behind his eyes like stars, he’s never hurt this much before, not even when he fell off his bicycle and sprained his ankle when he was seven) and unwrap the makeshift bandage, which is getting uncomfortably red.

Peeling off the last soaked paper towels, the ones closest to his skin and sticking to the ragged edges of the cut, hurt so much that he retches bile up into his mouth. He swallows it back with difficulty and drops the last bloody paper towel onto his crumpled blazer with the rest.

This will be the difficult part.

He dumps the rest of his laundry onto the floor—he doesn’t have any towels, or any access to a sink other than Leblanc’s commercial bathroom, and if he were to commandeer it for this Sakura would kick him out on the street before he could so much as blink. So—kneeling over his laundry, with shaking hand, he uncaps the rubbing alcohol and pours a hefty dollop onto the top of his cut.

The next thing he’s aware of is Morgana’s frantic voice and the smell of rubbing alcohol, blood, and vomit. He lifts his head—why is his vision so hazy? Why can’t he focus? Morgana is nothing but a tiny black lump, a still point in the wobbly, nausea-inducing blur. There’s a paw on his face and pain in his arm and—

oh, right.

At least the bleeding has slowed. He thinks he can safely say that the cut is clean, which is good because the rest of the rubbing alcohol has trickled out into his clothing. Everything reeks. Everything is dim; it must be moving onto evening time.

The paw pushes at his cheek a little harder. Akira opens his eyes as far as they can go. Hey, Mona-chan. Why are you yelling? Don’t yell, Sakura-san will come up here and see and then neither of us will have a bed to sleep on.

Where are you going?

Bye, Mona-chan.

He struggles upright, but retches when he gets there. There’s nothing left in his stomach; he was saving his lunch money to do laundry tonight. That’s going to be a hard excuse, walking downstairs with clothes smelling like rubbing alcohol.

Oh, first, arm. Or, paper towel, then—no, antiseptic ointment, then paper towel? Yeah, that sounds right.

Cold.

Hurts.

Hurts, ow, ow ow ow, hurts so bad, but he has to wrap it so he can wash his blazer before he goes to sleep—

there. done. Sloppy, but done, and agony radiates up and down his arm like fire, and he can barely move his arm, but it’s done. Done done done. Oh, welcome back Mona-chan. Help get the clothes into the basket, we have to do laundry.

Why are his ears ringing so bad?

The world is spinning. His head is spinning, or maybe his body is the thing that spins and everything else is standing rock-solid. He feels….bad. Bad in a way that maybe he should worry about, but he has things to do, he has to wash his clothes so Sakura-san doesn’t see the blood and the mess and kick him out, because as bad as he feels now he’s sure it’d be worse if he was sleeping in a subway corner.

Okay, legs, come on.

Walk a little circle—okay, wow, moving is not fun or nice. Take a minute. At least the laundry place is right around the corner, right?

Walk a little circle again. Shaky, but okay. Alright. Laundry—oh, no, he’s not going to be able to carry it in the hamper, but maybe if he puts it in the—a bag, Mona-chan, do we have a bag? Bigger than your bag? I can’t carry you and the laundry in the bag, you’ll get all wet and gross.

Mona-chan, please don’t yell, he’ll get mad…

Okay, yes, that’s a bag, that’ll do, if Sakura-san asks we’ll just say we don’t want the smell in the café, right?

Right.

Okay.

Stairs. Not fun. Rest halfway down. Rest all the way down.

Okay.

Past Sakura-san, don’t look, don’t look don’t—aw.

Yeah, no, not feeling well, not contagious, won’t stay long, just laundry, bye.

Okay.

Rest just outside the café where he can’t see. Oh, okay, sitting. Head between knees, breathe, breathe, it’s okay.

Okay.

Stand up.

Stand _up_.

 _Stand up_.

Okay.

.

.

.

Okay. Up. Drag the bag if you can’t lift it. Step. Again. Follow Mona-chan, he knows the way. Step. Again. Corner. Step. Again. Lift the bag up just over the doorsill.

Okay.

Load the clothes, piece by piece. Sitting can wait till the machine is on. Pick up the shirt you dropped.

Pick it up.

.

.

.

get off the floor.

okay.

let mona start the washer, he’s got it. he has the wallet. how can he feed those yen coins in—oh he’s biting them. okay.

put your head between your knees and breathe.

.

.

.

breathe.

.

.

.

breathe.

.

.

.

put the clothes in the dryer. sit back down.

breathe.

.

.

.

okay. Okay. Clothes in the bag. Wrinkles don’t matter, not now. Mona don’t lean, you’ll knock me off balance. I just feel bad. Tell you later.

Bag over the shoulder.

Back to Leblanc—oh no, Sakura-san is waiting outside.

No, sir. I didn’t realize it was so late—

—is he going to _hit_ —

oh. his hand is cool.

oh—no, I can carry—oh, okay. Um. Thank you? Mona, hop in, you can’t hold the door.

Okay. Stairs. Just follow Sakura-san up as fast as you—

.

.

.

breathe.

Breathe. Okay. Slowly, then. Don’t meet his eyes. You don’t want to see his expression.

Yes, sir. Right to bed.

What? Stay home tomorrow? I can—I’m not that—

Well, um, I wouldn’t call it _“fainting”_ —I really—

Oh. Okay. If—I won’t make noise, I won’t disrupt the café at all. I’m sorry for the trouble.

No thank you. Yes, sir. I’ll drink some water in a while.

Yes, sir.

Goodnight.

…okay. Okay, Mona-chan, I’ll show you, you’ll see when I change.

…Yeah. Tripped on the roof. Yes, I cleaned it, yes, it hurts, no I don’t have any—

No, I don’t want you to steal any for me!

No, I won’t ask Sakura-san, he’s got to be furious already having to carry all my stuff up—

Mona, please, I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow, but I feel really bad—

.

.

.

breathe.

shift off your arm.

breathe.

okay.

He sleeps.

He wakes up dizzy and parched; there’s a glass of water left on a chair in easy reach. It’s dark; he doesn’t know what time it is or how long he’s been asleep, but he drains the glass.

He sleeps.

He wakes up slightly less dizzy but almost as parched, with a hunger gnawing inside him strong enough to feel like a physical ache. There’s a plain bowl of rice on the chair, and the water glass is refilled; he reaches for the rice, but the ache in his arm brings him up short.

Bandages should probably be changed, right? Especially when his wound was bleeding as much as it had been. Best not to eat anything until he changes it, in case he starts retching again.

Morgana butts up against his side when he digs the paper towels out from where he stashed them, narrowing his eyes as Akira starts to unwind the ace bandage around his forearm. Every motion hurts, and peeling the bloody bandages off hurts enough that he retches again, grateful for the lack of anything in his stomach.

He explains what happened in short, terse sentences. The cut doesn’t look any better in the cold morning light; the skin around it is red and inflamed, and the very edges of the wound are a gross grey color. That’s what happens when you get a deep cut, right?

There’s no rubbing alcohol left, so he just draws another line of antibiotic ointment down the center—swallows down his retch—and wraps it back up with a liberal padding of paper towels.

Even with almost half the roll, it still feels like agony.

By evening he feels a little more like a regular person; by the next morning, Saturday, he feels well enough to head to school, though his arm itches and aches and he feels weaker than he really should after a full day of rest. They’ve gotten the treasure and they’re still waiting for the results, so maybe he can pass off the residual queasiness in his gut as trepidation towards that? At least he doesn’t have to go around swinging a knife in the Metaverse anymore.

Ann and Ryuji both look at him curiously, but they don’t say anything, and he declines both offers to hang out when he heads home.

It’s on Sunday that he realizes he might be in real trouble.

There’s….goop. Really thick, really green. It smells awful, and his arm feels like it’s on fire, enough that Akira slips into the Leblanc bathroom before it opens and desperately drapes cold wet paper towel after cold wet paper towel over the back of his arm. He can’t bear to put anything over that ragged, gaping wound. Not yet. Maybe the fresh air will do it some good? He can’t—he doesn’t know what else to do.

He just stands there, staring at the wound, until he catches a flash of movement in the mirror and looks up to see Sakura-san looking down, bemused dismay and dawning horror on his face.

It’s way, way too late to hide it. All he can do is make excuses—the door was locked, he couldn’t go to the bathhouse until Sakura-san got there, he was going to clean the sink out, he promises, see, he hasn’t even touched it yet, just wetted down some paper towels and—

and Sakura-san doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t yell, and he doesn’t kick Akira out; his brows draw down, making him look thunderous and angry, but his voice is gentle when he asks what happened and why Akira hadn’t asked for help, and he almost looks pained when Akira explains in the smallest of voices.

His voice is quiet, and his hand is gentle but firm when he clasps it onto Akira’s shoulder and guides him just down the street to—oh, and he is a goddamn idiot, because Takemi-san’s clinic has been an option this whole time, hasn’t it?

Getting his wound cleaned is not fun. Takemi-san looks at him like he’s an idiot and talks to him like he’s a moron, but her hands are quick and deft, and she doesn’t cause him any more pain than is strictly necessary. She even gives him a local anesthetic and some painkillers before she stitches up his arm, since she has to trim the hard, ragged edges of the cut away anyway so the skin can grow back together cleanly.

He’s going to have a scar. There’s no way around that, and honestly he deserves it. But what else could he have done? Ask for help? A laughable idea, one that he does laugh at when Takemi-san presents it to him. It’s possible the painkillers she gave him worked a little better than intended, because this time the furrow in Sakura-san’s brow doesn’t bother him at all.

He’s got pills now, antibiotics and painkillers, lots of them, all of them big and scary-looking, and Takemi-san stares him dead in the eye when she tells him to take all of them. He firmly believes that she will, somehow, know if he misses a dose. And these pills are…not cheap. He winces when she tells him what her services will cost—he’s got some savings, but this will pretty much wipe them out.

But Sakura-san pulls out his wallet and pays without a word, making Akira go pale with dread even through the haze of the painkillers. That is a lot of yen to hand over for an acquaintance’s child, one you don’t even want around in your store.

He apologizes quietly on the walk back home, but Sakura-san just grunts and tells him to sit at the counter when they get back. He makes Akira curry and coffee, then sends him back upstairs to lie down and rest. He gets the same again for dinner that night, and Sakura-san tells him gruffly to take the leftovers in the fridge for lunch tomorrow. It’s a kindness that surprises Akira, and one he doesn’t feel like he deserves, but he’s grateful.

Sakura-san checks his bandage morning and evening, and he visits Takemi-san twice in the next two weeks—once to have the sutures removed, once when he’s finished his round of antibiotics, to make sure the infection has passed fully. It’s healed clean, but the scar is ugly and red. Good, Takemi-san says, maybe it’ll serve as a reminder to ask for help when you need it.

Maybe it will. Akira runs his fingers over it—it’s still tender and sensitive to the touch, and it hurts if he presses on it, but that’s okay. A reminder is a good thing.

Sakura-san greets him gruffly when he walks in the door. Akira thinks he’s learning how to read his face now; he glances at Akira’s left side, and Akira rolls his sleeve up and twists his arm back and forth. Sakura-san nods and motions for him to head upstairs. There’ll be dinner again for him tonight, probably, even if it’s just the café leftovers. Either way, he’s grateful. There is some kindness to adults, if you’re lucky.


	2. "I'd love to see a fluff piece of Akira and Ryuji cooking together :)"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no content warnings for this one! just sweet sweet fluff :3c

“Uhhhh, _Ryuji?!_ ” Akira says in moderate panic as the pan starts to sizzle. “Ryuji, it’s doing a thing, I don’t—“

“Dude, just stir it.” Ryuji doesn’t even look up from his phone, where he’s sitting on the kitchen table with his feet braced on the seat of the chair in front of him. “It’s not going to wreck anythin’, it’s fine. It’s just heating up.”

“Just stir?”

“Stir.”

“Alright…” He turns back to the stove, and Ryuji doesn’t even try to hide his grin in his sleeve.

Look, if you asked literally anyone, they’d probably say Kurusu Akira is some sort of superhuman. He’s charming, he’s dashing, he’s got courage out the wazoo, he shot a god in the face and went to prison and came back because his face was too goddamn pretty, but the one and only thing he can cook is curry, and man cannot live on curry alone.

Ryuji’s been cooking with (and for) his mother since before he hit puberty. He’s not a master at it, but he’s got the basics down easy, and he loves making dinner for his ma before she gets home, just to see her beam at him.

They’re not even doing anything fancy tonight—not with this being Akira’s first real cooking lesson. There were a lot of vegetables left over in the produce drawer, so he’s having Akira try making a simple stir-fry. There’s almost no way you can go wrong with stir-fry.

“Ryujiiiiiii,” Akira whines; when Ryuji looks up, Akira’s glasses are fogged over. “I can’t see! How am I supposed to know if the veggies are okay if I can’t see?!”

“They’re fine, just keep stirring—“

“How long do I have to stir them for?”

“Till they’re done, dude, it’s not that hard—“

“I think this one’s sticking. I think it’s ruined. I already ruined it. Do you think I should add some more oil so it—“

“Don’t you dare touch anything I didn’t hand you!” Ryuji yells, laughing despite himself. “You’re _fine!_ They still look fine!”

“This is awful,” Akira moans, wiping fitfully at his glasses. “Horrible. This is the most stressful thing I’ve ever done. How do normal people do this all the time instead of just going to Big Bang every night?”

Ryuji hops off the table and snugs right up behind Akira, taking the hand holding the spatula in his own hand and stirring the veggies with it. “You’re such a baby,” he says, warm and affectionate. “Who woulda thought that the big bad Phantom himself would whine so much about learning to cook?”

“I wouldn’t whine so much if it wasn’t so awful!” Despite himself, Akira’s so focused on the pan in front of him that his nose is all wrinkled up. It’s the cutest damn thing, and Ryuji grins wide as Akira stirs vigorously. “Seriously. How long does this take? I could put this in the microwave for a minute and a half and it’d be done.”

“You can’t live off microwave food forever, that’s how you grow up to look like a blimp.” He pinches a pea pod out of the pan, to Akira’s horrified gasp, and crunches down on it.

….hmm. That, uh…

“Didja add the salt already?” Ryuji asks.

“Was I not supposed to? I couldn’t see if any was on there, so I just kept shaking the shaker…” Yeah, that’d explain it. Ryuji slides the pan off the burner, to Akira’s chagrin, and turns it off. “Did I mess it up?”

Ryuji holds out the rest of the pea pod, dropping it into Akira’s mouth. The expression on Akira’s face turns immediately to dismay. “Oh,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah. That’s awful. Sorry, Ryuji. I can pay you back for the vegetables—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryuji shakes his head, leaning forward to press his forehead into the side of Akira’s. “It happens to everyone when they first start. You wouldn’t believe the number of meals I burned all crispy when I first started.”

“Still…” Akira looks so disgruntled, staring at the pan with undisguised venom, that Ryuji can’t help but laugh. “Are you sure we can’t just go get some Big Bang and call it an evening?”

“Aw, hell no! You’re not getting’ out of a cooking lesson that easy!”

“That’s what I was afraid of…”


	3. "can I request an angsty (although with a happy end) Werewolf!Ryuji x Akira/Ren fic please?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: wolves? ryuji's a werewolf. nothing hinky happens, he's just a werewolf.

“Look, I’m not expecting you to want to talk, but I feel like we need to. There’s some things we should discuss before you just shut me out completely, right? You’re my best friend. I…though we were getting to be closer than that, even. Can you…will you call me back? Please? I miss you.”

Akira hangs up the phone and barely keeps himself from throwing it at the wall. It’s been _three days._ Three _entire_ days since he’s so much as seen Ryuji, three days with no response over the phone or through text, and the anxiety would be clawing its way up his throat if Ann hadn’t told him she’d visited him yesterday.

He doesn’t know what he did _wrong,_ that’s the thing—if he did something, Ryuji should’ve told him, so he could’ve fixed it and not just _ghosted_ him. And it’s not like—he doesn’t even know where Ryuji _lives,_ Ryuji always comes to Leblanc to hang out, so it’s not like he can bring over some soup if he’s sick.

He’d thought—he’d really thought that maybe, they might be getting somewhere that night in Inokashira Park, when Ryuji’d put his hand on top of Akira’s and leaned in, and the full moon was so beautiful in his eyes that Akira’d blurted something stupid—

Is _that_ what this was all about? The stupid thing he’d said? Something like “The full moon couldn’t compare to your eyes,” _god_ , Akira cringes so hard thinking about it that his shoulders touch his ears. Okay, yeah, if someone said that to _him_ maybe he’d ghost them for a while. But _still!_

It sucks, and he sucks, and his life sucks, and it’s making Phantom Thievery very difficult without his right-hand man at his, well, right hand. He gets knocked on his ass three times during a single fight in Mementos before Queen all but drags him back to the Mona-Mobile.

He’s not sulking.

(He’s maybe sulking.)

When he tries to slink off at the entrance to Mementos, Ann grabs his arm. “You’re this torn up about it?” she says like she already knows the answer.

“He won’t answer any of my messages,” Akira mutters, scuffing his shoe along the floor with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know if he’s dead or sick or hit in the road somewhere or arrested or—“

“I can guarantee that he’s none of those—or, well, most of those. He might’ve been hit in the road.”

“Ann, don’t _say_ that—“

“Ugh, _boys_ and their _feelings,_ ” Ann groans, and tugs on his arm. “You probably would’ve found out sooner or later, but if you’re gonna be distracted enough in Mementos that you’re getting your butt whooped by a _Pixie—“_

She leads him to a line that leads out towards the edges of the city. It’s still early in the day; the train isn’t packed enough that they have to stand, but Ann refuses to answer any of his questions and spends the entire ride messing around on her phone.

They ride for almost an hour and a half, long enough that they pass the suburbs and get into fields and forests, and the train car is all but empty when they disembark. It’s hot; hot enough that Akira regrets wearing his overshirt and rolls the sleeves up as high as they’ll go.

The road, once they leave the station, is unpaved. Ann leads him down it for nearly twenty minutes, confidence in every inch of her body, every step that she takes. Somehow, she looks more like she belongs out here than she does in Tokyo.

She leads him to a house, big and sprawling, that backs onto a long field backed by a deep, dark stretch of forest. Akira expects that they’ll knock, but Ann just opens the door and walks right in, bold and brazen as you please, toeing off her shoes once she gets inside. “Ann,” Akira says, low and uncertain, “what—“

That’s when the biggest fucking dog he’s ever seen in his goddamn life steps into the hallway, its claws clicking on the linoleum, it’s ears tilted up and at them. It’s big and black and bushy and one of the most beautiful things Akira’s seen in his life. “Holy _shit,”_ he breathes in awe and delight (and a little bit of apprehension,) “Ann, look at how big that dog is, what the _fuck._ ”

The dog _laughs_ at him.

Literally. It drops its jaw and huffs, front paws shuffling back and forth on the floor as its tail swishes once-twice behind it. “Oh my god,” Akira groans, dropping down to his knees. For a brief moment he doesn’t really care where he is or what’s going on, because if there’s anything Kurusu Akira loves in his life, it’s dogs.

(Don’t tell Morgana.)

“Hey, do you—is it friendly?” He looks up at Ann, who has both hands slapped over her mouth looking like she’s trying not to laugh at him. “Ann, is it—“

The dog laughs at him again and clicks its way down the hallway, shoving its face into Akira’s. He’s greeted with a muzzle full of very sharp, very white teeth as the dog sniffs his face, his ears, his hands, and finishes off with a big sloppy lick right across his glasses. Ann loses her fight with laughter at that, even more so when the dog shoves its head into the gap between Akira’s arm and his side. Seriously, it’s _huge._ It dwarfs him while he’s kneeling—it’s gotta weight at least a hundred kilo, easy.

He’s finger-combing his way through the dog’s thick ruff when he realizes that Ann’s further down the hall, talking to someone. He leans back and up to look, but the dog rolls over and exposes its belly very appealingly – welp, _his_ belly, clearly—and wriggles in invitation, distracting Akira enough that Ann and whoever she’s talking to are almost on top of him before he looks up again.

“Akira,” Ann says, laughter in every line of his body, “I’d like to introduce you to Sakamoto-san, Ryuji’s aunt. Ryuji, get off the floor and stop making an idiot of yourself.”

Akira stands and makes polite introduction before Ann’s second sentence sinks in. “You, um, named your dog after your nephew?” he blurts out before he can help himself. Sakamoto-san, Ann, _and_ the dog laugh at him.

Or, well…now that Akira’s looking closer, it looks more like a wolf than a dog—it’s got the big triangular ears, the long, slender muzzle, the narrow eyes and very large teeth. Maybe a mixed-breed? A wolf-dog? They have that sort of thing, right?

Wolf-dog-Ryuji follows him around the house while Sakamoto-san makes pleasant talk and insists that they stay for lunch; each time Akira stops, dog-Ryuji shoves his head under Akira’s hand. Dog-Ryuji is tall enough that Akira can rest his hand on his back and ruffle his fur while Akira is standing; dog-Ryuji is also shedding fit to burst, leaving long, soft fur all over his hands and his leg.

Out of habit, he takes his phone out and levels it at dog-Ryuji; dog-Ryuji tilts his head and drops his jaw, just a bit, in a canine smile. It’s a cute picture; he saves it and sends a copy to Ryuji out of habit with the caption _met your namesake today_.

Across the room, attached to a charger on the kitchen counter, Ryuji’s phone goes off.

As it turns out, dog-Ryuji _isn’t_ a namesake. As it turns out, it’s a wolf, and it’s also regular Ryuji.

“Hold up,” Akira blurts in the middle of the explanation Sakamoto-san tries to give him, grabbing onto Ryuji’s head and staring him straight in the eye. Ryuji makes a grumble in the back of his throat and folds his ears back in appeasement, shuffling his paws and wagging his tail. “So you mean—all this time you’ve been hamming it up, watching me make an idiot of myself—“

Ryuji nods, and drops his jaw to grin a little wider. His eyes are the same, a warm chocolate brown. “I would’ve thought you’d be blond.”

“Nah,” Ann says, “he dyes his hair. It doesn’t carry over with the transformation.”

Akira has a lot of questions. Like, a _whole lot_ of them. “Is this why you ran off the other night?” he asks, a little tentative. Ryuji whines and pushes himself up onto his haunches to drape his forepaws over Akira’s shoulders. He then proceeds to swipe his tongue very messily over Akira’s face, over and over and over again until he’s howling in laughter and his glasses have been knocked off somewhere.

They’ve got a _lot_ to talk about, that’s for damn sure, but in the meantime it’s nice to have Ryuji’s head warm and heavy on his lap, and it’s nice to run his fingers through Ryuji’s thick fur and scratch behind his ears hard enough to hear his tail thumping on the ground behind them. Ryuji’s just as cute a wolf as he is a human; so what if he goes all furry a few times a year? It’s something Akira thinks he can bring himself to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (things i wanted to fit in but couldn’t figure out how:
> 
> -ryuji’s extended family has a massive property outside of tokyo bc werewolfism runs in the family, it’s basically a pack house for the times when they have to be transformed  
> -in this the full moon is a very strong call; they can resist it for one moon, but no more than that, and if they forcibly stay human for too long they’ll be stuck as a wolf for like a week or so when they can’t resist anymore (like stretching a rubber band too far or smth whatever this is just a small prompt why am i trying to plot)


	4. "pegoryu intercrural sex.........."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "blease akira fucking ryujis nice thighs....... ive been wanting thighfucking for years....."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this one's porn

There’s something really fucking hot about this, and it’s turning Ryuji on just about as much as it’s confusing him.

He hadn’t really seen the allure before, but every drag of Akira’s cock frotting along his as he fucks into the space between Ryuji’s thighs has him biting into the blanket to keep quiet, and the glimpses he gets when he turns to see Akira’s red, blissed-out face above him, biting his lip, eyes unfocused, sends jolts of heat down his spine and into the pit of his stomach.

This is the first sort of thrusty sex they’ve done—they’ve traded blowjobs and handjobs, but nothing more than that. Akira had suggested this, though, and every slick slip-slide-thrust just drives in what a good fucking idea it is.

“Shit,” he pants, spitting the blanket out. He twists his head to look behind him. Akira’s hair is sticking to his forehead in damp little curls— the attic is hot even without the sort of physical activity they’re doing. Ryuji feels like he could melt out of his skin.

It’s so quiet, aside from Akira’s low, lewd huffs, aside from the squelch of the lube between Ryuji’s thighs. Akira’s chest is warm and toned against his back— he’s got Ryuji on his knees, his head resting on his folded arms. He peeks down— his hips are up high enough that he can watch the head of Akira’s cock poking through, back and forth, back and forth. It’s mesmerizing. It’s really hot.

It’s just not quite enough to get him off, that’s it.

But that’s okay. He’s enjoying it— even more so when Akira tells him to flip over, his voice low and rough and excited, and squeezes back between his thighs.

It’s even better like this; he gets to watch Akira’s expressions in real time, and for someone who likes to pretend that he’s got a face like a mannequin half the time it’s a real treat. His eyes are lidded, his lower lip caught between his teeth— Ryuji flexes his thighs as he thrusts back in and is rewarded when Akira moans.

“You like that?” Ryuji murmurs, feeling lazy and wicked, stretching both arms and arching his back. Akira slows just a bit, just to watch him. His eyes roaming over Ryuji’s body feel like they have physical weight, tangible pressure; his hands curl possessively around the backs of Ryuji’s thighs.

When he nods, Ryuji grins wide. “C’mon, then— what’re you waiting for?”

The lube might end up feeling tacky and gross when it dries on his thighs, but it’s worth it to watch Akira’s expression when he comes.


	5. "i hope you dont mind another prompt... but........... touchstarved ryuji..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: sad ryuji : (

It’s only after he befriends Akira and becomes a phantom thief that Ryuji realizes it’s been a long, long time since someone’s touched him without the intent to hurt him.

Sure, at first it’s only for baton passes, but Ryuji finds that he cherishes even that brief moment of contact, connected for an instant with a person who means him no harm. Even more so when Akira starts getting comfortable enough to slouch a shoulder into him, or stretch out and bang his knee into Ryuji’s; each brief moment of contact is just enough to make him crave more.

It’s pathetic. He hates it even as he yearns for it, spends his time hyper-aware of the distance between him and Akira at any given time. It feels like a reward each time, and he treasures them.

He keeps it under wraps as best he can. Akira’s got shit to deal with other than Ryuji and his weird touch issues, especially as the Phantom Thievery shit keeps ramping higher and higher, as the stakes start to tower over them.

In late November the weather starts to grow cold. Ryuji’s mom leaves before he gets home from school and comes back after he’s already left; they communicate through notes and cold plates of food left plastic-wrapped on the counter. Akira’s basically incommunicado after what he went through at the police station; Ryuji is alone.

The loneliness aches.

Sure, he’s got the rest of the Phantom Thieves, but they’ve been making an effort not to be seen together in case Akechi comes looking, which means Ryuji spends his days and nights alone with just his phone and his thoughts; the group chat is always an option, but after months and months of physical company Ryuji feels the absence like sandpaper.

He can’t do it.

He’s up and out the door and on the train before he can talk himself out of it.

They agreed to stay away from Leblanc, he knows they did, but he can’t— he just can’t, he’s got to— just see him or something, hang out like they usually do, anything. Ryuji hates existing in a void; it feels too much like that long, dark time after Kamoshida broke his leg, the time he doesn’t really like to think about.

There’s no one in the cafe except Boss; he shoots Ryuji a startled look and then nods, gesturing up the stairs. Ryuji takes them two at a time, loud and noisy to announce his coming; by the time he rounds the corner at the top Akira’s rolled over from where he was laying reading on the floor to look at him.

He looks like shit; the bruises have gone all yellow-green, and the scabs on his face have gone dark and raw. He’s wearing a grey hoodie that almost swallows him, makes him look more washed-out and pale than he should.

Ryuji’s never seen anything more appealing in his life. He drops his bag by the stairs and flops down on the floor next to him with a sigh.

Akira regards him solemnly for about ten seconds before he says “You look like shit.”

And isn’t that just a thing?

“You’re one to talk,” Ryuji says, though his throat is a little thick. “How’re you feeling?”

He looks like he thinks about it before he shrugs. “Alright, considering.”

“Alright. That’s…good.” He’s right there. He’s right there not three feet away, and Ryuji yearns to reach out and just— do what? From this close he can see the glazed, blank look in Akira’s eyes; he’s there but he’s not, the same look he’s had for the past three or four days— god, it’s already been that long, it’s only been that long, Ryuji has no self-control.

The floor is cold and uncomfortable. He squirms, then sighs and gives up, resting his head on his hand.

Akira stares at him for a long time after that, long enough that he gets a little self-conscious, long enough that he starts looking anywhere and everywhere but him. From his position on the floor all he can see is Akira and the detritus around him— open pocky boxes, empty ramen cups, easily-consumed snack foods left empty or half-eaten all around the room, like Akira would get halfway through and then lose interest and set them down where he stood.

It gives him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. What is he doing here, coming and seeking things out from Akira when he’s feeling like this? Why didn’t he come sooner? Why isn’t he the one offering the helping hand here?

What could he even do?

He’s working himself into a fine fit of recrimination when Akira reaches out and sets his fingertips very lightly on Ryuji’s face.

Ryuji freezes.

It’s nice.

It feels good.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? His best friend is lying here on the floor after he was effin’ beat, and he’s the one reaching out and offering comfort.

But…this is the softest touch Ryuji’s felt in years. This is the first time in so very, very long that there hasn’t been any ulterior motive or undertone of promised violence.

So he leans into it, chases the touch, and watches a spark light in Akira’s eyes. Akira always feels better when he has a project to work on— he must have felt awful, spinning and chasing his own tail stuck all day in this attic.

He wriggles forward ungracefully, like a worm against the wooden floor, just to slip his other hand beneath Ryuji’s head so that for a moment he’s cradled between Akira’s palms; both of Akira’s thumbs stroke over Ryuji’s cheekbones, gently brush over the dark circles underneath his eyes , almost a match for Akira’s own.

For a moment Ryuji’s guilt is overpowering, a sick, slick knot in his throat. He almost moves away, but Akira moves first. Another awkward wriggle puts him right in front of Ryuji, close enough to reach over and fist a hand in the back of his shirt, close enough to tug and make Ryuji close the distance. Then they’re pressed up against each other from chest to knees, and Akira shoves a calf in between Ryuji’s own and hooks him even closer.

He’s shivering, just a bit— he can’t control it, not when Akira’s hands move on him, his fingers carding through his hair and tracing elaborate patterns on his back, his breath feathering across Ryuji’s face. Ryuji’s own arm lies crushed awkwardly between them, until Akira shoots him a pointed look— He cautiously drapes it feather-light across Akira, who looks satisfied and continues what he’s doing.

It’s overwhelming in the best of ways. Every touch feels like a tiny firework pressed to his skin, explosive and sparkling. Every drag of his fingers feels like they leave a tangible trail in his skin, like the weight and pressure lasts and lingers, like if he looked he could see every place Akira’s put his hands like neon signs.

His face is wet. He doesn’t realize until Akira’s hand leaves his back and his thumb touches his face, light as a feather. He’s…leaking. He gets a hand in between them to scrub the tear away, and would move further except for the fact that Akira still has a hold on him like a particularly stubborn barnacle.

There’s no point in resisting the will of Kurusu Akira. Ryuji drops his arm back over his waist and tucks his face into the space beneath Akira’s chin, and breathes, and drifts.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket over them, the TV is on, and Futaba is perched on the couch playing video games and shooting them faux-disgusted looks. Akira just shakes his head and sits up to crack what sounds like every bone in his body, but once he’s done he folds back over the top of Ryuji’s head until Ryuji’s almost wearing him like a cloak.

Things are a little better after that. Ryuji doesn’t go home that night — he stuffs himself full of Boss’s curry and wraps himself around Akira until in the dark they can’t tell where one of them ends and the other one begins. Akira rucks up his shirt and traces patterns up and down the bare skin of his back until Ryuji is boneless and drooling into the pillow, his brain misfiring in fits and starts. They talk, just a little; Akira tells him to come back tomorrow, screw the plans they made and screw subtlety. Ryuji would agree to anything if it meant that Akira’s fingers kept swirling in spirals and stars under his shoulder blades, but even he is leery enough of Makoto’s retribution to hesitate.

Then Akira drags his nails down Ryuji’s back in a long, slow stroke, and Ryuji’s brain goes fuzzy enough that he calls plausible deniability for anything he might say for the rest of the night.


	6. literal phantom thief au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay this prompt might be a little strange and a little spooky. But what if Akira could see ghosts and the phantom thieves were literal phantoms. Akira goes to tokyo and People r cruel. But on first day at Shujin he meets a blonde kid and befriends him. Rumors about the scary transfer happen but now people also say that he goes off into corners n talks to himself.He finds the only living person at shujin who likes him isnt really a living person at all.."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: major character death, in that ryuji, shiho, and ann are ghosts (but they're still there and still ready 2 fuck shit up re: kamospeedo)

He says his name is Ryuji.

No one else can see him; Akira’s barely able to some days, with how translucent and wavery he looks. He stands at the stairway leading down to the first floor most days, shoulders against the wall and cold fire in his eyes until Akira’s out of class. It took him three days to realize that Ryuji, as much as he wears the uniform like everyone around, probably isn’t a student of Shujin Academy anymore.

Honestly, Akira prefers his company, even more so when Ryuji shows him how to break onto the school roof. It’s less breaking than it is Ryuji stepping through and fussing with the lock—the perks of being a phantom, Akira guesses. Lunches and afternoons are much more bearable with a secret place to retreat to and a new friend to talk to.

Ironic, isn’t it, that the only person in this fucking city that isn’t afraid of him is already dead?

Ryuji’s pretty talkative for a dead boy. He walks with a limp, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye Akira sees splashes of blood dripping down from his temple to stain his shirt. He scowls fiercely when Akira asks about it, though, and the music Akira has playing from his phone crackles in time with his voice when he details how Kamoshida Suguru, the gym teacher, crippled him with a blow to the leg and then, when his back was turned, when Ryuji was trying to crawl away, another to the back of his head.

He was never charged; the school passed it off as “justifiable self-defense,” and Ryuji’s been stuck haunting these effin’ halls ever since.

“He treats this place like it’s an effin’ castle and he’s the goddamn king,” Ryuji tells him seriously, pale and washed-out in the sunlight; he’s so much easier to see indoors, but he likes it out here on the roof with Akira; Akira gets the feeling that Ryuji’s been trapped in those hallways for longer than he wants to think about.

Sometimes they’re joined by another pair of flickering shadows, neither ever as clear as Ryuji or as talkative—in fact, he never hears the black-haired one speak, and the second blonde only glares when Akira tries to address her. Ryuji tells Akira not to take it to heart—Suzui Shiho is just another one of Kamoshida’s victims, and Takamaki Ann is tied to her like a guideline—wherever one goes, so does the other, and Shiho is stuck here until either she’s removed or Kamoshida gets his just desserts.

Akira aches to help them. He watches them shimmer in the light like an oil streak, watches them pass through walls and doors; if he squints, he can almost see the moment when they fold through reality to do it.

It’s stupid, but he wonders…

The next time Ryuji passes through a closed door, Akira puts his hand on it and shoves, just lightly. Of course it doesn’t move, but Ryuji pokes his head through and laughs at his efforts, making a joking grab for his hand as if to—

it connects

Akira goes straight through, wispy and insubstantial as a cloud, and suddenly it’s _Shujin_ that looks like an oil slick smeared across the world and _Ryuji_ who looks solid and real and as shocked as Akira.

But then he grins with a smile full of daggers, because the possibilities here are _endless_.

They test it out again; another touch from Ryuji has him shivering back onto the physical plane. They can do it three or four times before Akira starts getting nauseous, and while he’s intangible, while he’s a phantom, no one can see him.

He walks through the school in wonder—almost everything is muted but for a few people, bright and sparkling in his vision; Kawakami-sensei is one, and when he passes by her he catches an uneasy aura around her, full of grief and guilt. Kamoshida, on the other hand, feels neither of those things, and flares red and angry in Akira’s sight.

He doesn’t like that. Not at all, not with Ryuji behind him with blood on his face, not with Suzui behind Takamaki, their eyes blank white voids, their mouths gaping snarls. There’s a bright core to Kamoshida a same throbbing red as his aura, and something in Akira yearns to reach out and touch it.

So he does.

Kamoshida shudders at the touch, shoulders hunching in as he looks around nervously, and something flares bright-hot _-angry_ in Akira’s veins. It’s not right, what he did, what he’s still doing. It’s not _right._

He curls his fingers around that bright hot core , and he _yanks._

For an instant he can see _two_ Kamoshidas, one solid and real, one wavering and intangible, and in that moment the three ghosts behind him strike.

Lightning crackles up and down Ryuji’s arms as he leaps forward, his fist impacting straight into the phantom-Kamoshida; Suzui and Takamaki are barely a second behind, Takamaki little more than a pillar of flames, Suzui a form barely held together with wind. They strike with concentrated force hard enough that the tangible Kamoshida rocks back and away, Akira losing his grip on the core of Kamoshida’s being, and the phantom flickers out of existence.

That’s okay. He knows what to do now.

With Ryuji’s help and Takamaki and Suzui’s encouragement (“Call me Shiho,” Suzui murmurs to him shyly, smiling a little when Akira grins at her) he writes a card, a calling card detailing each and every one of Kamoshida’s crimes and sliding it under his office door.

He signs it, “The Phantom Thief of Hearts.”

As soon as he’s read it Ryuji grabs onto Akira, and Akira grabs onto the core and lets Ryuji, Shiho, and Takamaki (“Ann!” she says with vicious satisfaction after she lands another blow, “I think at this point we can go to Ann.”) get to work.

The phantom-Kamoshida is reeling by the time they’re done; the tangible Kamoshida is in tears. They leave it at that, unwilling to make him a ghost and tie him to the school as well.

There’s an assembly three days after that. Kamoshida confesses his crimes in front of the entire school, and that afternoon when Akira leaves, Ryuji follows like an untethered balloon grinning wide and wild and free.

They don’t stop there.

Shiho and Ann bring him rumors of a number of ghosts spiraling endlessly around an old ramshackle house; turns out it’s the abode of one Madarame Ichiryusai, who (according to the ghosts, who to a one are comprised of his old students) worked his students to literal death and stole their works for his own. The newest ghost, a tall, stick-thin boy who introduces himself as Kitagawa, tries to make a case for his old sensei, but faced with Ann, who is literally steaming, and Shiho, hair tossing in an unseen breeze in her agitation, cuts himself short.

“He _killed_ you,” Akira tells him, not ungently, not without sympathy. “I’m not here to get revenge on him; I’m here to bring him to justice, for you and everyone else.”

Somehow he gains another ghost tethered to him, and Yusuke brings the north wind with him, an icy, howling gale that freezes the phantom-Madarame where he stands when all five Phantoms appear in front of him.

Madarame confesses his guilt on live television, and attributes his change of heart to the Phantom Thieves. Rumors spring up here and there; eventually, Akira starts seeing more and more ghosts pop up at the corners of his eyes, though it takes a long time for one to grow bold enough to approach him on its own.

In his spare time now he flits through the metaphysical reality with his new friends; the ghosts come to him, and he regains justice on their behalf. The rumors of the Phantom Thieves grow, and grow, and grow.

In June he meets the student council president of Shujin Academy, one Niijima Makoto, who questions him fiercely; since she can’t prove anything, she lets him go, and he thinks nothing more of it until Shiho comes to him, frantic, and tells him that Niijima has gotten in way over her head with an actual Mafioso.

It turns out that phantoms can do a hell of a number on a room now; Ryuji shorts out the lights in delight, making them flicker ominously, while Shiho flips cups and sends papers scattering everywhere.

It turns out that Akira can pass on his intangibility; he grabs Niijima’s arm and drags her into the metaphysical with them. It turns out to be a fantastic move, as with her help the six of them bring Kaneshiro to his knees.

He confesses everything to the police. The name of the Phantoms grow and grow, and this time Akira gains a friend that the rest of the world can see.

He gains another not a month later; the ghost of one Isshiki Wakaba materializes in front of him outside the café one day and all but demands his help. It’s a bit of a struggle to break into his current guardian’s house, but well worth it when he lays his hand on Sakura Futaba’s arm and lets her reunite with her mother, at least for a few moments. Isshiki-san had been murdered, it turns out, and Futaba had blamed herself and shut herself away in her guilt; this meeting goes a long way towards relieving her of it, enough so that she shows up in the café later that evening to Sakura-san’s clear surprise.

Between Futaba and Makoto, between Ryuji and Ann and Shiho and Yusuke, Akira’s days and nights are full; he’s content, if not happy, until he comes across a man that sends alarm bells blaring through his skull and makes Isshiki-san howl in a way that sends chills up his spine.

Shido Masayoshi is surrounded by the ghosts of those he has killed; Shido Masayoshi is the reason Akira is in Tokyo in the first place, renounced by his parents and shunted into a city he doesn’t know for a crime he didn’t commit.

Each and every one of Shido’s ghosts has heard of Akira’s coming. Each and every ghost cannot wait to see him fall.

Akira is so, so eager to oblige them.


	7. too much persona, not enough person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hi! I'd like to see something where Joker's personas influence his personality, and his friends get creeped out more and more as time goes on because they can spot the subtle differences in his behavior and demeanor, making them question how much of Akira is himself, and not one of his personas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: dissociation

There’s a noticeable difference between Akira and Joker at first.

Akira is a quiet boy, nearly silent until Ryuji and Ann break through his outer shell a bit in the real world; they bond with him over beef bowls and crepes, over afternoons at the arcade and the underground mall in Shibuya, and under that cold, blank exterior is someone warm and kind, someone who burns fruitlessly at the injustices of the world and aches to see them put to rights, someone they’d follow through hell or high water.

Joker, on the other hand, is extra as hell.

No one needs to do that many backflips. Really. It makes Ann laugh even as she’s lashing her whip out, makes Ryuji grin while he’s winding up to knock a shadow clear off its feet. He’s bright and vivacious with a smile as sharp as his dagger and twice as bright.

As time passes, though, he changes.

At first they attribute it to stress; he’s a little slower to smile, though he remains warm and supportive of each Phantom Thief, new and old. He still trains with Ryuji and visits every photoshoot Ann invites him to, but there’s just something…off about him.

It’s not until Makoto joins them that they can pinpoint it—it’s all about whichever Persona Joker is using in the moment. He’s able to wield so many of them—sometimes they change after (or during) each trip to the Metaverse, shuffling round and round in an endless intricate dance. He’s most himself when he uses Arsene, both Ryuji and Ann agree on that.

He’s got this persona that Ryuji’s drawn to, Shiisaa; Joker hits harder with this one, and hovers more, almost protectively. Ann’s favorite is the Leanan Sidhe; sometimes when Joker wields her he’ll hum low and sweet as they traverse the Metaverse. Yusuke is partial to Thoth, and finds it fascinating how Joker will taunt the enemy more often when he wields it, all wide, empty smile and beckoning gestures.

But the more personas he gains, and the stronger he gets, something starts to fold. Sometimes he flickers between moods in a heartbeat, calm acceptance to thunderous rage visible in his eyes and the tightening of his shoulders, to tense anxiety and paranoia, his gaze flicking over every exit, cataloguing escape routes.

Joker is still Joker, if maybe a little faster to act, a little quicker to violence; he’ll ambush a shadow and slit its throat with hardly a sound, shake the thick, viscous blood from his gloves and wave them on without a second’s hesitation.

It escalates almost imperceptibly, until one day in November Ryuji turns to Akira to say something and meets something foreign and wild in his eyes.

It’s only for a moment, but it shakes him down to his bones, and he texts the group-chat-sans-Akira about it immediately.

They don’t know what to do. There’s not much they _can_ do; Joker’s multiple-persona ability is one of their biggest assets; his ability to be whatever they need him to be is the only reason they’ve made it this far in the first place.

It doesn’t stop them from hating the fact that they watch their friend slipping a little further away with each new, horrifying Persona he unveils. Where once were horses with two heads and tall fae women are now giant, viscous lumps of screaming meat, a humanoid with endless eyes and mouths and arms, a…giant dick on a golden chariot.

It makes them wonder if, if the phantom thieves ever come to an end, there will be anything of their friend left.


	8. long distance relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "prompt! could ya do maybe some stuff about how Ryuji and Akira deal with the long-distance aspect of their relationship? I imagine they're gonna be That Couple, always smiling at their phones and they've got each other's pictures as their lockscreens but also they're missing the warmth of each other's hands and being sad that they don't have anyone to spoon anymore (if you make it angsty please give it a happy ending too jgjkfgd)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: pining, like, gross pining omfg

**> >direct message from: sakamoto ryuji, 9:38 am  
  
>>from: ryuji  
** _so i know we litrly just pulled out of ur driveway but  
when r u coming back  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _as soon as i physically can  
golden week, for sure  
maybe i can swing some weekends  
i don’t think sojiro would mind  
  
_ **> >from: ryuji  
** _if he did u could stay with me  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _yeah  
i’d like that  
  
_ **> >from: ryuji  
** _u know ur always welcome at my place  
mom loves u  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _just your mom?  
  
_ **> >from: ryuji  
** _no  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _yknow  
i said i wouldn’t cry  
but  
  
_ **> >from: ryuji  
** _i know  
me 2  
i miss u already  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _yeah_  
same

**> >direct message from: kurusu akira, 7:15 am   
** _i almost miss the train in the mornings_  
sure i get to sleep a little longer but   
sometimes we’d get to see each other for that final stretch  
i miss that  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _yah_  
and getting food after school   
  
**> >from: akira  
** _yeah_  
like i’d go get a beef bowl on my own but  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _yeah_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _yeah_  
hey  
do you still have that picture of us as your lockscreen  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _yeah_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _good. me too._  
god i miss you  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _me too_   
  
****

**> >direct message from: kurusu akira, 10:43 pm**

**> >from: akira  
** _hey bby what u up to_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _> >isnt that how im sposed to type_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _yeah but i thought it was funny_  
seriously though i’m bored af, what’re you up to  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _nm_  
finished my hw hours ago  
bored too  
miss u  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _aw, babe_  
you know i miss you too, right  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _yah_  
still nice to see it tho  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _i can think of things nicer to see than that_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _?_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _what’re you wearing_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _???_  
clothes?  
pj pants an a tank top?  
y  
what r u wearin  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _would you believe…hot pants_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _tf are hotpants_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _so glad you asked ;)_

**> >file sent!**

_[image description: Akira from the back, posing in front of what looks like his bathroom mirror with a leg on the tub; he’s naked, but has shoddily drawn a bright pink crop top and clashing red booty shorts over himself. The booty shorts say “juicy” on the back in bold yellow letters.]_

**> >from: ryuji  
** _dude  
  
_ **> >from: akira  
** _that’s it?_  
that’s all i get?  
all that work put in and all i get is a “dude”?

**> >from: ryuji  
** _sry dropped my phn_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _in a …sexy way?_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _in a laughn way_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _:(_  
that was my best sexy pose and everything  
i saved it just for you  
and you laugh  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _juicy_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _okay maybe that was a little much_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _send a better one_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _that was the best i had_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _rly?_  
cus i can do bettern that in like 2 sec  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _really?_  
  
**> >file sent!  
** _[image description: Ryuji, reclining on his bed with the hem of his shirt in his mouth. the angle he’s at shows a long expanse of toned abs and pecs; the shirt obscures most of his face except for his shark-like grin.]_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _rly_  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _nice._  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _yah_  
now u sure u cant do ny better  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _guess i’ll have to try, won’t i?_  
give me a moment  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _take ur time_   
  
**> >direct message from: sakamoto ryuji, 2:14 pm  
  
>>from: ryuji  
** _i’m pulling into the station_  
just left the train  
at the front  
where are yhhn   
  
**> >direct message from: kurusu akira, 11:22 pm**   
  
**> >from: akira**   
_in your arms_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _dude ur litrly on top of me_  
y r we txting  
  
**> >from: akira  
** _felt mean to leave that text just hanging out alone there_  
  
**> >from: ryuji  
** _ur weird_   
  
**> >from: akira**   
_< 3_


	9. expanded scene: touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Idk if you're still taking prompts, but there's a line in "touch" that I really like a lot and would love to see expanded into a scene! "the hit had knocked Joker flat on his face for a few seconds that had felt like an eternity, and he’d limped all the way to the nearest safe room before they could patch him up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: violence? idk

Every step is agony.

He’s doing his goddamn best not to show it, but the nimbus of pain in the small of his back aches and throbs in time with the beating of his heart. He feels blood spreading hot-sticky-warm all over his back; he’s never been more grateful to be wearing black clothing than he is now. Nothing is going to show on his thick black coat.

The others are watching him; he tries to even out his gait, but one step with his back straight leaves him dizzy and breathless with nausea; he doesn’t realize he’s leaning against the wall until Skull’s hand is on his shoulder, eyes worried behind his mask.

He waves him off. He can’t afford to show weakness, not now.

Or so he wants to think, but by the time they round two more corners of Futaba’s tomb he’s cold and clammy with the pain, a tremor in every limb. Damnit, damn it, _damn_ that shadow, the god in a box, the one with the power to turn them into _rats_ and then slam its disembodied _fist_ into them—

He sways dangerously, and Ryuji catches him. He doesn’t ask, and Joker doesn’t tell him no, just loops his arm around Ryuji’s shoulder and lets him bear some of his weight.

Even after a Diarama his back still aches bright-hot, and when Queen asks him if he wants to call it a day he agrees without hesitation. Ryuji hangs back at the entrance to Mementos; when he offers his hand, Akira takes it, and laces their fingers together hard enough that his knuckles turn white.

Ryuji squeezes back just as hard, and doesn’t let go.


	10. extra-stressed akira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Congrats on 200 followers! I have a prompt: in which early game Akira is very stressed™ because it's taking 5evr to clear out Kamoshida's Palace, and Shujin politics/rumors are getting to him despite his best efforts to not let them, and things are rather awkward with Sojiro so he's worried that even the tiniest slip up will get him kicked out, and budgeting is hard between paying for gear, transportation, food, baths, and laundry -- and Ryuji tries to make him feel better. Preferably sfw please"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: extra stressed akira

“Hey man, y’wanna stop and grab a bowl of ramen with me?” Ryuji asks, a grin on his face, and tries to keep the grin from dropping off his face into a disappointed pout when Akira shakes his head. It’s not personal, he knows it’s not personal, and maybe he’s been getting a little too invested in his brand-new friend—shit, it’s only been a couple of weeks, but he’s been trailing around Akira like a puppy hoping to go out for walkies or to play fetch. Maybe the guy needs some space?

Ryuji tries to give him some. He really does.

But Akira’s the first friend he’s had in so long, and after a day of radio silence he texts again, this time for training. Akira accepts this invitation—maybe he just hadn’t been hungry that day?—but something’s off; they barely run for ten minutes before Akira’s bent double, both hands on his knees, heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

“Dude,” Ryuji says, concerned, “you alright?”

“Yeah,” Akira pants, “just—probably not the best idea to run on an empty stomach.”

“Uh, yeah, no dude, your body needs fuel!” He thinks he sees Akira’s shoulders hunch just a bit at that, and he’s still pale when he stands up. “Here. C’mon. Let’s go get somethin’ into you so you don’t feel so awful—“

“I really can’t,” Akira mutters. He won’t look at Ryuji; his arms are crossed over his chest, and he keeps shifting back and forth like he wants to get away but is too polite to leave. It makes Ryuji feel like he’s missing something, something real important, but all he can do is choke out a forlorn “hey, okay man, uh, see you tomorrow?”

At least Akira still smiles at him when he leaves. Maybe he is being too pushy.

Or, maybe not; he comes across Akira at lunch, pacing, with both fists buried in his hair; he’s on the roof talking to Morgana, and he hasn’t noticed Ryuji propping the door open, halfway out. “No, but what if—the subway pass is crucial, I can’t walk here, and laundry and bathhouse are crucial too—no, listen, I know, but we’re using up our medicines fast too, and we need to make another palace run in the next two days, because if we can’t secure the infiltration route then we’ll need another day to rest up before we give it another shot, and we’re getting really close to the deadline, Mona, I’m on _probation,_ if he expels us I’m gonna be out on the _street—_ “

Ryuji backs out of the door and closes it gently at that; he sits at the bottom of the stairs with his elbows on his knees and his head resting on the wall, deep in thought.

This whole Metaverse shit is a lot more complex than he thought, huh? He’d just go home tired and aching and take a long bath, eat some dinner, and head to bed; sounds like it’s a lot different for Akira, though. He hasn’t asked about his situation yet. Maybe he should, cause if he’s trying to budget his subway pass against his _bathhouse_ money, things’ve gotta be shit for him.

The next day he shoves a bento box into Akira’s chest as they pass each other in the halls. “Ma made too much dinner,” he calls over his shoulder, a delighted feeling bubbling in his chest at Akira’s baffled, grateful look. “Meet me on the top floor for lunch!”

He does, and he eats every bite, and when he says that it’s the best meal he’s had in weeks Ryuji’s heart clenches.

So he brings lunch again. And again. And drags Akira out for beef bowls, and pays for both of them. He’s got some extra cash, anyway, it’s no big deal, and when he explains where the leftovers are going his ma is more than happy to make enough for three.

And maybe he sees the bags under Akira’s eyes getting darker, and maybe he sees Akira start to move a little stiffly after another long afternoon in the Metaverse; so maybe Ryuji sits him down on the stairs in front of him and kneads the stiffness out of his shoulders and neck until he’s limp as putty and half asleep, leaning back into Ryuji’s chest. It makes him feel good, being useful like this; it makes him feel like he’s able to support Akira, and not just tag along behind him.

And then they wreck Kamoshida’s Shadow just two days before the deadline. They’re all beat after the fight, riding on dregs of energy and euphoria, and Akira looks like he’s almost dead on his feet; He wavers a bit with every step, enough that even Ann squints at him with suspicion until Ryuji bolsters him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, a solid declaration and not an offer.

Akira smiles at him, something small and sweet, unspeakably tender and open, and rests his head on Ryuji’s shoulder the whole train ride home.


	11. de-aged akira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have an idea if you want to use it. A shadow somehow turns Akira/Ren into a little kid and the thieves have to take care of him for the day until it wears off. I think it could be so cute"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: snackies

“Wuji,” the small child says definitively, his jaw set in a familiar, adorable way, and Futaba cackles again so long and hard she falls over.

The situation merits a little hysteria; this is a new and unwanted affliction from a type of Shadow none of them have ever seen before. Even Futaba hadn’t had any clue what it was going to do until it pointed at Joker and screamed something hollow and unknowable, and they’d barely escaped with their skins intact and their de-aged leader safe and sound, if tiny.

But as it turns out, toddler Akira is _fucking hysterical._

Even though he’s only been small for an hour or so, he’s got his clear preferences—he hasn’t left Skull’s side for more than a few minutes, and those few minutes were spent investigating the tail of Fox’s metaverse outfit. He finds Queen a little frightening, apparently, because every time she so much as looks at him he ducks behind Ryuji’s legs and presses his face into his thigh, and he doesn’t like the texture of Ann’s suit, or how bright it is, but he did stretch his arms up to touch the ears of her mask and grinned as he did so, so she’s not too disappointed. He _adores_ Mona, but Mona won’t stay still long enough for Akira to get a hold of him.

He still has a grasp on who everyone is when they take their masks off, at least; Ryuji makes the stupidest face every time tiny Akira says “Wuji” in that high-pitched toddler command voice he has. Right now he’s perched on Ryuji’s shoulders, his arms wrapped around Ryuji’s forehead. His metaverse outfit shrunk with him. Futaba’s already taken _so many pictures._ They’re waiting in the closest safe spot they could find; they don’t feel comfortable travelling any farther, not without knowing what it could do to Akira.

Futaba’s had a scan running for the past few minutes, looking for answers, and when she finally gets some she’s both relieved and disappointed at what she finds. “It’s not permanent,” she announces to everyone’s sigh of relief, “but it is gonna last a while. A few more hours, at the very least. He should be okay to leave the metaverse.”

“Are you sure?” Makoto asks. Now that she’s got her mask off her face, Akira keeps looking at her curiously. Every time she looks back he ducks his face into Ryuji’s hair. Ann keeps slapping a hand over her mouth so no one can see her smiling. “We shouldn’t be too hasty, we wouldn’t want to do anything—“

Akira says “Hungry,” in a small, plaintive voice. Just like that, everyone turns to him; he blinks, then shoves his face back down into Ryuji’s hair and says it again, even quieter. Ryuji pats his shin with one of the hands that he’s using to hold him steady and hisses “Hey, we got anything?”

Everyone checks their pockets, but they hadn’t planned on this, and usually Akira keeps all their foodstuffs anyway. “Guess we’re heading out then,” Ann says with forced cheer. “Akira, honey, what’re you hungry for?”

He looks like he’s thinking about it very seriously. “Umm…” he says, then hesitates; Ryuji gives him another pat of encouragement. “Rice.”

“Just rice?” Makoto says with raised eyebrows. “You can have more than rice, if you want.”

He “umm…”’s again, longer and louder this time, wiggling a little on Ryuji’s shoulders. The indecision is _incredibly_ cute. “Dunno.”

“Alright, rice it is!” Futaba says, grinning wide. “C’mon, everyone, our fearless leader wants snackies!”

“Snackies!” Akira echoes in delight, drumming his heels against Ryuji’s chest. “Snackies!”

“I’m going to die,” Ann says in a muffled voice behind her hands. “I’m going to die because of this. Is it actually possible to die because something’s so cute? Because I’m going to.”

Yusuke hasn’t said a single word since Akira grabbed hold of his tail; his nose has been buried in his sketchbook, and there are stars in his eyes. The muse has him _hard_ ; Makoto has to lead him into the Monabus, and even then he barely thanks her. Ryuji peeks over his shoulder to look, but all he can catch is a mess of lines.

At least tiny Akira isn’t one of those kids who gets fussy in cars; in fact, the second the Monabus starts purring along he’s out like a light, stretched out between Ryuji and Futaba with his head in Ryuji’s lap. “I can’t do this,” Ryuji hisses, and his face is making like six different expressions, like he doesn’t know how to feel. “I ain’t good with kids—“

“You’re doing fine!” Futaba tells him encouragingly. “It’s not like he wants to hang off of any of us instead—“

“He really loves his Wuji,” Ann adds from the seat ahead of them, twisted half over the back to take a picture of sleeping Akira. “Don’t think I’m ever going to let either of you two live this down.”

Ryuji groans.

At least it’s easy enough to get him out of the metaverse and get some food into him; they grab some food to go from the diner in Shibuya and eat in Inokashira Park, where Akira falls on his fried rice like a child possessed and ends up eating half of Ryuji’s beef and broccoli as well, and bits and pieces of everyone else’s food to boot. He likes Makoto’s spicy chicken, but turns up his nose at Ann’s crepe, and when he’s done he seats himself in the cradle of Ryuji’s crossed legs and watches the duck-boats paddling by with sleepy content.

At this point, even Makoto’s pulled out her phone to take a sneaky picture or two. “I do feel a little bad,” she admits.

“It’ll be worth it for the expression he makes once he’s back to normal,” Futaba assures her, and little Akira just sighs and tucks his head into the crook of Ryuji’s arm.

When he changes back it’s very unceremonious; at one moment he’s a napping toddler, in the next there’s a puff of smoke and he’s a suddenly _very_ awake teenager, and Ryuji is yelping beneath him.


	12. good dad sojiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "prompt: akira getting sick in the early game and worrying about how he's going to take care of himself because of sojiro's throwaway line about how he's not going to take care of him if he gets sick -- except sojiro takes care of him anyway because he's a good dad"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sickfic

It’s not until they leave the Metaverse that Akira realizes the residual heat in his face and ache in his bones isn’t because of the multiple Agi’s he’d taken. It’s deeper than that, a soreness that drags at his muscles, that makes every motion twice as hard as it needs to be; he feels like he’s dragging, trying to wade his way through knee-deep water with the weight of the world on his back.

It’s not good. It’s very not good, in fact, it’s so not good that it’s verging on horrific—he can’t be getting sick, not now, not with the finish line of Kamoshida’s treasure just in view.

He could be wrong—it could just be allergies. He could’ve had a bad piece of yakisoba pan for lunch. It could be his sleep schedule is off, with what tossing and turning he’s been doing the past few nights.

Ryuji and Ann look at him when he pauses with his hand on the terminal but he waves them on; he doesn’t want them to worry about him. Not now. There might not be anything wrong.

Willful denial’s only ever gotten him so far, though; by the time he’s walked halfway home his legs feel like lead and the world wavers around him, crystallized by the moisture caught between his lashes. He’s not _crying_ , but he’s always…leaked a bit when he’s in pain, and his head throbs with every beat of his heart, the weak afternoon sunlight feeling like an interrogation floodlight beaming directly into his brain.

Sakura-san is there—of course he’s there, this is his café—he gives Akira a cold nod, and Akira ducks his head and gets upstairs as quickly as he can. He doesn’t want Sakura-san to see his weakness. He’s already made mention ten times over about how he’s not going to take care of Akira. Akira doesn’t need him to, either; he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.

He’s still got a stash of instant ramen cups, though it’s getting low; he knows he should have dinner, but instead he heads in a slightly wavery line straight for his bed and lies down. Morgana jumps up beside him a moment later—he asks something, but Akira doesn’t really register it, just nuzzles his face into the cool, musty pillow and wads the blankets up, pressing them into his eyes.

The night is bad; the morning is worse.

He can’t get warm, no matter how much he wraps his blankets around himself, no matter how much he tosses and turns; Morgana eventually escapes to the couch with an irritated noise, and Akira is both grateful for it and mourns the loss of the extra heat. He’s barely slept by the time the alarm rings, and getting up is physically painful; he’s shaking so bad by the time he pulls his blazer on that he can’t even do up the buttons.

He rests twice going down the stairs, the second time right before the turn that would bring him into the café proper; he can smell curry, and while he knows it should smell delicious it just turns his stomach instead, filling him with queasy jitters.

He tries to scoot out before Sakura-san sees him, but luck isn’t on his side; Sakura-san calls him back and tells him to eat something. He’s caught between a rock and a hard place—he doesn’t want to refuse his hospitality, but Akira’s sure if he put one bite of that curry into his mouth that it would be coming right back out.

Instead he demurs by telling Sakura-san he’s going to be late, wincing at how rough his voice sounds, and closes his eyes as he bows in apology.

When he opens them again, he’s on the floor, and Sakura-san is staring at him in unabashed dismay, one hand on his forehead. It’s big and cool; Akira’s eyes water at the kindness, and he slits them shut to try and hold it back as he apologizes. His head aches more than the fever should account for—he must have hit it on the stool on the way down.

He can’t see Sakura-san’s face when he tells Akira not to apologize, but he’s gentle as he helps Akira back to his feet and back up the stairs, and his voice is not unkind as he says he’ll call Shujin and tell them that Akira is too sick to go in.

Which, he’s _not_ , he promises, but Sakura-san gives him a look, and the bed is so soft and the other side of his pillow is so cool and he aches so much…

When he opens his eyes again the light is dim; there’s a slip of paper with a pill on it and a glass of water next to a covered bowl of still-warm rice on a chair beside him. His limbs still feel almost too heavy to move, his head aches fit to burst; he takes the pill with a sip of the water and a bite of the rice, but his stomach rebels when he tries for a second.

When he lays back down, Morgana curls warm and purring behind his neck; when he blinks back to fuzzy awareness again, the rice has been replaced with a fresh bowl, covered with a napkin; there’s another pill and a fresh glass of water, with a note in firm, blocky letters to actually eat this time.

He finds that he can, now—maybe the pill from earlier is working, or maybe the sickness has mostly passed. Either way the rice is delicious, even cool; there’s a taste to it that Akira can’t identify, but it’s just the thing to fill the sudden gnawing, aching hole in his stomach.

The next morning finds him able to stand up, even if he’s still weak as a newborn kitten; he tries to make his way downstairs but Sakura-san pokes his head through the opening and shakes it sternly. Akira spends his day in bed recuperating, reading some of the travel manuals he’s picked up in the underground walkway, texting Ryuji and Ann to let them know he’s okay, just sick, and eating whatever Sakura-san brings him.

It’s so unexpectedly nice, what he’s doing, that Akira’s thrown off every time. He doesn’t need to keep coming up here with glasses of water and bowls of rice, especially when he has a business to run downstairs; Akira’s just the freeloader, the friend of a customer that Sakura-san had enough heart to allow into his café for the year. He’s suffused with guilt all of a sudden, enough so that when Sakura-san comes up next, he apologizes in a halting voice.

But Sakura-san just shakes his head silently, and claps a hand on Akira’s shoulder before he leaves again.

He doesn’t get it. But maybe that’s okay.

And the next time Sakura-san offers him curry, Akira jumps at the chance to try it.

It’s goddamn _delicious._


	13. demon summoning for fun and profit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt: the PT's can't get Akira's name cleared at the end of the game (for whatever reason). So they break him out of jail themselves. (Wacky heist jailbreak shenanigans? Post-victory angst as the PT's collectively realize they're now ALL on the run from the law maybe forever? Sexy sunny beach vacation after they flee the country and settle in Hawaii? Your call!)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: demon summoning, sorta? character death? mentions of blood

In the end it’s as simple as this.

They know when they’re failing. They know that failure isn’t an option, and they know that there’s a world beyond what they once knew, and they know that they would stop at _nothing_ to get Akira back.

Makoto’s research turns from lawful to esoteric. Yusuke is tasked with materials—he’s the one with legitimate access to Kosei, and Kosei is the one with legitimate access to some of the more fanciful materials they need. Haru gathers clippings and blossoms and dries flowers on the roof in the cold winter light, and Ryuji and Ann visit Takemi-san’s clinic once a week.

She’s surprisingly on board with her part—as tangentally as they know each other, they came across each other during the early days of trying to get Akira out—and doesn’t ask them what the blood is for. She won’t take more than half a liter from them at a time, and monitors their health almost obsessively; they’re eating a lot of steak and spinach lately, which has Ann furious and Ryuji thrilled.

Futaba is the only one who keeps her eyes on their original goal. She’s had access to the prison cameras since less than a week into Akira’s incarceration, and watches them obsessively. She watches what he does, when he does it; she watches him grow thinner, pale and wan as the months grow by, and eventually she gathers the others and says “We have to do it now or never at all.”

So Ryuji gets in touch with Iwai, the owner of the gun store in Shibuya, another one of Akira’s confidants they met tangentally; after a tense conversation and some hurried explanation, he has the wheels of his connections running.

Makoto tells her sister; after all the work she did to put Akira away, and then all that she’s done to try and get him back out, she deserves to know. Sae isn’t _thrilled_ with their plan in the slightest, but she does what she can to prepare things from her end.

And then the time comes; they spread several thick plastic sheets on the floor of the attic under Sojiro’s watchful, baffled eyes that turn alarmed when the pouches of blood come out. But he doesn’t say anything, even then.

Futaba’s already had Yusuke draw the glyph circle onto the sheets in sharpie, so they each take a paintbrush to fill them in. Haru scatters dried orchids and wolfsbane, nightshade and belladonna, carved mandrake roots and devil’s trumpet flowers tucked at each of the inner vertices of the slow-growing pentagram.

They all agreed that Makoto would stand out to negotiate with whatever came through. When the bloody glyph is complete, she stands back in her own sealed circle and watches the others settle in. “Let me know when you’re ready,” she says, holding the folder with the incantation in it between white-knuckled hands.

As one, the other five prick their thumbs and set them to the sealing marks in the glyph.

The ring lights up with white fire.

“Holy SHIT—“ Ryuji yells, almost unheard under Sojiro’s shout and Ann and Futaba’s shrieking. None of them move, though. Makoto starts speaking, and though her voice is weak at first it gains in strength until the words coming out of her mouth are no longer words but beats of power, throbbing, viscous, dripping form her mouth to tangle in the fire, and sigils form in the wisps of the fire.

The pressure and the power builds, and builds, and builds, and—

Г̴̵̦̼̹̣̻̣̣̖̋͌̐ͧ̈́ͤ̈́̌ͦͣ͒̈̃͒͑͂ͭэ̎͌ͮ̆͋ͤ̀̆͂̍̐̍ͭ͝͏͖͔̻͔̰̗̦̻̳͈͖̯͔̼̺͉̱р͂̋͑̈́̋͆ͯͣͥͥͣ̉͋̓͑̎ͤ̿͏͎̳̫̣̗̤̗͘͢э̃ͫͩͫ͗̓̉̀ͤ̔̽͊̀͟͏̴̵͇̬̲̰̹̲э̸̧̬̣̗̳̓̉ͬ̐̀ͦ̈́͑͊̉̆̎̊́̓̅̚̚ ͔̪̱͎̫͉̪̙̞̙͓͈̱͓͖̣̣ͤͬ̈̎̽̽́͗ͥ̀ͥͪͪ̂ͪͦ̚͘͡͝н̸̸̧̰̝͚̙̹͈͖̫̤͔̩̥̼̥̏̋̔̒͂̆̆͆ͯ̒͑̍̈́̎̍̔͞ь̻̰̦͉͇̠͇̻̺̥͙̰̥͕ͪ̉̅̾͋̀̈́͗͟͞ ̷̥̞̩͎̬̠̪͙̳̓̃̌ͫ̾͑̿͠б͓̻̭̥͚̤̮̠̱̳͇̲̹̼͕͈͚̂̂̔ͬͣ͋͗ͬ͌̃̍ͬ́̓ͯ́̓ͪ̏͢и̸̊͂͂ͫ̄ͮ̓͋̂̔̿̚̕͏̻̜̦͇̻̼̤͖͔̩͕͙т̡̂͗ͧͥ̈͌̂͂ͣ̇ͮ̆̎ͥͤ̌͡͝͝͏̞̖͕̹̩̥̫̲̞͓ͅү̴̶̧̻̠̞̻̝͔̜͍̙̗͙̳̮ͦͥ͌̇͋̓ͦ̓ͯ̎͋̿̚͢ү̴̧̭̠̠̣̳̯̝̙̖̲̩̹̬̮͉̩̱̥̀ͥͣ̆ͤͣͫͦ͑̎͌мͪͦ̈́ͫ̔̐̎̓̋̔ͩ̇ͤ̌̈́̈́ͪ͏̨̹͈͉͓͉͎̥̖͓̥͡ж̸̵̧͗͑̔̋͒̂͛̊̅̑̑̈̍̅͏̪͖͚͙̭̜̖̯̥͔̱л̨̠̗͙̳̙̦̻̤̫̰̖͑͂ͤ̑ͨ̽̆̅̂̽ͫ͆̓̋ͩэ̵̢͈̖̝̰̯̰̥̦͛ͪ̏͋ͧ̓̋ͭ̈́̓̔͜͞ͅг̷̴̡̙͖̬̲͆̔͐ͤ̅̉͑̄͘͝д̨̗̙̝͚̳͓̙̱̙̼͙̓́̅ͬ̉ͬ̃̉͋̔̽̓̆͑ͩ̚͟͞͠с͋̐ͯͣͤ̔͆͂ͦ҉̸͍͈̯̫̜̣̣͢͞э͙͇̯̝ͮͣͬ̒̋ͥ̍ͫ̄͋ͬ́̉ͪ͆̅ͦ͒͜͞͠͞н̶̢͙̖͈͕̱̤͔͓̖ͩͩͬͭͤ̆ͥ̐̋̔ͬ̇ͦͫ͝͝

When they come to, the glyph has burned to char, consuming the organic material and leaving ashy black stains on the plastic, and Akira lays unconscious in the summoning pentagram.

(Sae calls Makoto two hours later, exhaustion in her voice, to tell her that Kurusu Akira has committed suicide in prison. They hve the body and everything. Makoto tells her it’s okay, their new friend Amamiya Ren will be happy to replace him.)


	14. sickfic but ryuji version this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "hhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhheard you were taking prompts...? ryuji sickfic please? a hurt/comfort fic touching upon his insecurities all the while physically having a bad time... a fucking terrible time. caretaker? im kinda leaning towards akira or ann...pick your poison (if you do this thank you!! i can never get enough sickfics i love those...)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sick sad ryuji, bad intrusive thoughts, fever nightmares ft. violence : (

Akira’s late.

He’s never late, and inwardly Ryuji knows that it’s really not a big deal, that he’ll be back in the country as soon as he can, that travelling with Yoshida-san is great for his upcoming career in politics and all that, but Ryuji’s felt like absolute _shit_ for the past two days and his absence is really starting to grate on the few nerves he has left.

He’s never thought that he’s like, a clingy jackass or anything—he’s happy to do his stuff and have Akira do his own, long as Akira comes home to him—but he hasn’t felt this bad in a long time, his head fuzzed and his bones aching and his body heavy and his lungs full of sewage and rot. He hasn’t been this alone in a long time either, not since moving into their shared apartment.

It was only supposed to be a week, an international conference on some shit or other, a great opportunity, Ryuji understands, but he was supposed to be back _days_ ago and the flu season this year is hitting everyone hard and he’s working two jobs to make his ends of the rent meet and he’s tired and lonely and nothing _tastes_ right and—

“Sakamoto-kun?”

Right. He’s been crouching here with his forehead against the shelf shoving canned vegetables around for…a while, if the groove in his forehead has anything to say about it. His supervisor is hovering over him, a girl just a little older than him, and her eyes are concerned. “Sakamoto-kun, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

He wants to say yes. He’s in no shape, monetarily, to be missing work shifts, but he also hasn’t had anything to eat since….he doesn’t even know, just that he didn’t eat breakfast this morning and didn’t eat much last night with his stomach roiling like it has been. The way his vision fuzzes just lightly at the corners tells him that if he tries to stand up as fast as he wants to he’s gonna be in for a world of hurt.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, grimacing at how rough his voice sounds. “I’m good, Inoue-san. Sorry.” He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. He’s apologizing for everything anyway.

His shift eventually ends; he drags himself onto the subway and down the streets and up the stairs to his (empty, cold, lonely, dark) apartment, fumbling uselessly with the lock for nearly a minute and a half before he inserts the key. His stomach is roiling and his mood is in the gutter, even more so when he sees the dirty clothes on the floor, the pan that he cooked plain noodles in for dinner two days ago filmy and gross still in the sink, and no _wonder_ Akira doesn’t want to come home, not to filth and mess and a useless boyfriend who can’t even manage to keep things neat and tidy over a _week—_

“Stop it,” he growls low and rough under his breath, already kneading into the meat of his thigh over his scar. He’s got too much to do to clean up in case Akira comes home tonight to stand around and loathe himself.

He goes and stands in the shower till the hot water runs cool instead, and even hot enough to turn him red as a lobster he’s still cold. Every inch of his body aches like he’s been steamrollered. There might be some leftovers in the fridge he can scrounge together for dinner, but instead he just towels off his hair and goes straight to bed.

Akira doesn’t come home. Ryuji wakes and the world is thin and filmy, tenuous like a soap bubble. He doesn’t have to work; he rolls over and sinks back into his hot, gross pillow, and dreams.

He hasn’t had a fever like this since he was a kid. Every breath rattles; every rattle drags at his throat, leaves him parched and aching for water. His lips feel chapped and cracked, no matter how many times he wets them. His dreams are wild and fearful, crazy kaleidoscopes of memories and thoughts that spiral together until Ryuji can barely tell what’s real from what’s imaginary, what happened in the past from things he’s only thought about. Kamoshida swings the bat over and over; he hits Ryuji’s leg, his arm, his head, Ryuji stands up and hits him back, punches him in the face over and over until he sees blood and bone, Ryuji lies and whimpers and takes it until the bat swings one time too many.

Then he’s in Mementos again, knocked spinning and dizzy on his ass by an attack that leaves him drained. He’s in a palace and there’s a Shadow controlling him, turning him against his team. He brings his bat down onto Mona and watches him splatter across Okumura’s sweatshop, he winds up and hits Ann so hard her head pops clean off her shoulders, he knocks Yusuke down and takes his shotgun and hits Akira with a lead pipe over and over and over and over and over and over and over until there’s just red, everything runs red, and his hands are red and his arms are red and it’s all over his face and in his mouth his eyes his nose his ears everything is copper and lava and blood and he raises a hand but nothing is there no one is there and he drowns drowns drowns in a sea of crimson and copper

there’s a hand on his brow, cool and soothing; there’s a voice above him that brings him to the precipice of awareness, familiar and beloved, but he’s in too deep; he sinks back down, but all that awaits him is soft, deep blackness.

The next time Ryuji wakes, there’s a cool wet washcloth on his forehead and he feels…not great, but not as bad. Every breath still aches and the world still feels film-bubble-bad, but when he cracks his eyes open there’s a fuzzy black head above him that resolves itself into Akira’s face. “You awake?” Akira says, soft and low.

He’s such a sight for sore eyes. Ryuji squeezes his shut in hopes that it’ll prevent the tears from escaping, but it doesn’t. Akira makes a startled noise and wipes one away, very gently. “Hey, babe, it’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be alright.”

He brings Ryuji chicken soup and glasses of cold water, sponges the fever-sweat from his face and neck and arms, curls up beside him and reads from his stupid law books out loud until Ryuji grates out a genuine wish for death, and then he just laughs at him. His hands are always cool and supportive, and Ryuji’s grateful, so _so_ grateful, but all the while there’s an underlying current of guilt.

It wasn’t’ meant to be like this. He was supposed to come home to a clean apartment and dinner and Ryuji there happy and beaming, not coming home to take care of Ryuji’s sick, useless ass. He knows Akira doesn’t care, doesn’t mind in the slightest, but still…

There’s nothing he could have done, but he’s still guilty.


End file.
